Ashes, And They All Fall Down
by CarolineIsThine
Summary: Throughout the centuries, Malfoy Manor has seen its share of dark deeds, twisted relationships, and wickedness. This latest may be the worst.


_Ashes, And They All Fall Down_

_Prologue_

Malfoy Manor had never been a comfortable place. Never warm, never welcoming, never any adjective typically associated with the word _home. _The chairs were stiff and high-backed, the portraits bestowed dour glares on all who dared to traverse the hallways, the thick green curtains stood sentinel against both air and sunlight, and the candle-sconces affixed to the wall cast everything within their reach in a dull light – similar to unpolished bronze.

But never had the youngest occupant of the Manor wanted so badly to tear through the corridors, throw open the French double-doors leading to the gardens, and disappear into the still night air.

He was a young man, and the expression on his face made him look younger still. He had a shock of white-blond hair and a pale, angular face which was contorted into an expression that was beyond fear, beyond revulsion. He was standing at the bottom of the staircase in the entrance foyer, and taking deep, shaky breaths. He was steeling himself for the ascent. _Four flights_, he thought to himself.

He could Apparate, of course, but he never would. He needed this time. He needed to collect himself; to banish the thoughts which were rising, unbidden and unwelcome, in his head and dancing in front of his face.

_He was dreaming. He had to be. It couldn't be a joke. His mother had practically no sense of humor, and he could think of no one who would find this amusing, anyway. So he must be dreaming. He had to be. _

"_Draco, please." Her eyes were imploring him to understand. "Please believe me. If there were another way – if I could think of any other way…"_

_She reached out to touch his face, but her son stepped back in disgust and disbelief. "Don't TOUCH me. Don't touch me."_

"_Oh, God, Draco, please… please… Try to understand."_

_There was a long silence, broken by Draco's voice, which sounded as cold and flat as ice._

"_Explain it to me again." He needed to hear this again. He could care less if it upset her to tell it._

_Narcissa Malfoy nodded. But for a slight tremor in her hands, you would never have known this was distressing her. But Draco could tell. He could always tell._

"_You've known for some time now, Draco – you must have known – that your father and his colleagues are planning to avenge the Dark Lord's death."_

_Yes, Draco knew. And Draco could kill his father because of it. Had he learned nothing? Hadn't their family suffered enough?_

"_Not a full-scale battle. Nothing like before. Just Potter."_

_Always Potter. It was like wandering through a bloody maze. At the end of the maze was Potter, and at every dead end was Potter, and you couldn't even go back to the beginning – because there he was again, heroic and righteous and ubiquitous._

"_And a ritual needs to be performed. I don't know the exact nature of it, but it entails the sacrifice of an infant. The infant must be a pureblood, and – as your father will be the Death Eater to perform the ritual – it must be a Malfoy. He has informed me that he wishes to conceive."_

_This is the part where Draco begins to want to die._

There were forty-seven ways out of Malfoy Manor. It would be so easy. He climbed the stairs and with each door he passed, he traced the escape route in his mind. Behind the second corridor portrait of Antonio the Anemic (a vampire) and through the kitchens, and out. Down the third hallway on the left, down the staircase, and out. Down to the wine cellar, up the passageway leading to the gardens, and out. Into the drawing room, take the Floo Powder from the mantel, step into the fireplace, and out. He didn't think of Apparition. He didn't want to tempt himself.

"…_infertile."_

_Infertile? How could Lucius Malfoy, Lord of the Manor, his own fucking FATHER for fuck's sake, be-_

"_He is, Draco. You were born nearly five years after our wedding. We tried every spell and potion imaginable, Draco – and even some you __**can't **__imagine. All this on the assumption that I was the problem – that I was the one stopping us from conceiving. I spent years researching fertility conditions in witches and wizards, and my readings convinced me that your father was the problem."_

_Narcissa's grey-green eyes widened and her voice became more strained than it had been. _

"_Listen to me, Draco. Your father can NEVER know. To Lucius, virility is of the utmost importance. Even if he did believe me – which I do not think he would – I fear his reaction. I fear his anger. He believes that he has created a potion which will allow me to conceive. But it will do nothing. It may even worsen things."_

"_But," said Draco, his voice containing a desperate edge, "if I was born, obviously he was able –"_

"_I used powerful magic to bring about your conception and birth, Draco – I performed a complex spell using ingredients it took me years to harvest. Your father expects the child to be born within the year. Not only is there no time to perform the ritual, but it took so much energy out of me that I came perilously close to dying. So did you, my darling. The pregnancy was…difficult. To say the least."_

"_So." Draco swallowed. "So you – you're saying you want me to… You're saying you want us to…"_

Up to the attic, onto the rooftop, down the stairs to the veranda, and out. Down the fourth staircase on the third floor, through the sixth corridor on the first floor, into the drawing room, and out. Down the second staircase on the third floor, through the second corridor on the first floor, into the cloak room, and out.

"_Of course not! " she says, her voice finally breaking. "Of course I don't __**want**__ this. But I see no way around it. The child must be born. It must be a pureblood. It must be a Malfoy. This way the child will look just like y-" She caught herself. "-him. A cursory glance will be enough to tell him whether or not the child is a pureblooded Malfoy. This is all to say nothing of the spell itself, which will fail if the child is not a pureblooded Malfoy."_

_Draco could not seem to suck in enough air. "The child? Mum, you're talking about the child like it's nothing, like it won't be your son or daughter or my brother or sister."_

"_And your son or daughter," said Narcissa gently._

_Draco's stomach seized. The child would be both. Ohgod,ohgod,ohgod…._

"_Yes," he said. The word was dragged out of his throat and forced out of his mouth. "Won't you feel" –_

"_Yes, I will." Her voice trembled. "Yes, I will. But Draco, you, your father, and myself have to be my priorities. I've suffered so much…" It didn't seem like she was talking to him anymore. "I know that I can suffer and move on. I know that I'm capable of experiencing great pain and putting it aside for the sake of those around me. I love you, Draco. And I firmly believe that this is the only way to keep us safe."_

_He didn't say yes. He didn't have to. She knew he would have to do it, and she wasn't going to force him to verbally assent. It was a small mercy, but he was grateful for it._

He was here.

It wasn't his bedroom and it wasn't hers. This made the situation – barely, fractionally - more comfortable. Draco checked his watch, given to him by his parents on his seventeenth birthday. She was supposed to be in here.

He swallowed; took a deep, steadying breath. And knocked.

"Come in," said his mother's voice. She sounded calm enough. Draco, on the other hand, was ready to hurl himself out the window.

He entered. What else was there to do?

She was lying on the bed, dressed in a simple black nightgown. Slightly sheer. Draco looked down at the carpet. His stomach gave a sick swoop, as if he were falling off his broomstick from a great height.

He hadn't actually thought about the mechanics of this. Would they…kiss? Or would they just - ?

Oh, God. His stomach. His head. He was half-ready to tell her he couldn't do this, he WOULDN'T do this when-

"I'm frightened, too. It's all right, love."

And she rose from the bed and came over to where he was standing and it was all he could do not to flinch at her touch. And then her arm was on his shoulder and she was leading him to the bed and she was telling him to close your eyes, dear one, just close your eyes, close your eyes…..

Narcissa lay on her side, breathing softly, thinking private thoughts to herself and giving no outward sign of what she was feeling.

Draco, for his part, was lying on the opposite side of the bed, face down on the bedcovers, breathing heavily. It wasn't that he wanted to stay. He wanted to be gone, gone, as far as humanly possible. But he didn't trust himself to stand right now. Or to speak. He felt broken and hollow and humiliated.

He did not want to think of how Narcissa had gently unbuckled his belt and slid down his pants. He did not want to think of how she had stroked his body until he responded to her ministrations. Of how he had shut his eyes tightly as she guided him into her and of how she had grasped his hips and showed him how to move – what to do –

He did not want to think about any of these things, but it was preferable to the alternative, which was thinking about what had happened after all of this. Of how he had come – violently, vocally – in front of his mother. Of how the pressure had built interminably and of how his tightly shut eyes had snapped open – he couldn't help it – and of how he had gasped and moaned and his eyes had locked with hers. He had never felt so vulnerable, so embarrassed, so laid-open-bare in his entire life.

"Was that your first time, Draco?"

Draco was broken. No guards, no wards, no pride, no dignity.

"Yeah." Barely audible.

"I'm sorry."

He didn't have anything to say to this.

"It'll be better next time for you. Find yourself a nice witch and let yourself experience it the right way. The way it was meant to b-"

And Draco was off like a jet of light from a dueling wand. He buttoned his fly but left the belt on the bed, and ran out of the room, never meeting her eyes. He tore down the nearest staircase to the second floor, yanked his bedroom door open, and threw himself down onto his four-poster. Angry tears spattered his pillow.

Who the hell did she think she - ? Did she honestly think this was about him having a rotten "first time?" He knew he was less experienced than most 19-year-olds. So what? He'd barely had time to think about anything other than "not getting killed" during his prime adolescent years.

Draco buried his face into his pillow. That wasn't why he was crying. He was crying because his life had been changed unalterably, because he was humiliated beyond belief. And most of all, he was crying because no matter what happened to him in his life, no matter what problems he would face in the future, he would never, ever again be able to go to his _mother._


End file.
